Blind Man's Bluff
by Punny GEM
Summary: Jack holds out against his captors, sure his team is on the way to rescue him. Then he learns that they think he's already dead...


Blind Man's Bluff

The hands, fists actually, came out of the nowhere beyond his blindfold without warning. The sudden attack was frightening, as were the loud voices. He was taken roughly away, unseen hands shoving and pulling from various directions as he stumbled along. All of it - the blindfold, his bound hands, the violence, the sound effects - was meant to be unnerving. Only problem was, it worked, even when you knew the reasoning behind it.

It would all stop soon, he knew. Just as abruptly. Then there would be an equally terrifying silence, almost sensory deprivation, as he waited to find out what would happen next.

Sometimes they interrogated him, questions in the darkness punctuated by more violence when he refused to answer.

Sometimes they just left him, bound and blind, and eventually he would attempt to sit, only then discovering whether he stood in an open space or was surrounded by things sharp, hot, or biting. An open space was blessed relief. The hot things and tiny biting things you just endured once you could stand up no longer.

The sharp things were chance and danger combined. He'd tried using the sharp things to cut his bonds, even knowing they were probably watching to prevent escape, because not trying was the same as admitting defeat. The first couple of times the risk was worthwhile because they threw him back down on the sharp things as punishment then dragged him away from there. Which still meant that he spent the next few hours away from there. The next time, they'd pushed him down hard and left him to drag himself painfully up and off the sharp stuff. Only he hadn't. He had turned his head to one side and tried to cut off the blindfold even as he sawed away at the bonds on his wrists. That had been rewarded with another beating, but overall it was worth it because they took him away from that place to do it.

He didn't know how long he'd been captive, or how long since he'd eaten or slept. Wondered, with a vaguely alarming twinge of hope, whether they'd let him starve. He wasn't about to open his mouth again; they had let him smell food once, only to put some vile thing in his mouth when he'd opened it.

All part of the game, he knew. Just like the abrupt loud violent transfers from place to place. And badgering him with questions, fast and loud and confusing, in hopes that he'd let something slip. The punishments, no one that severe in itself, but delivered repeatedly, perpetually until you couldn't stand it. And in between, he was deprived of sight, sound, everything, so that the contrast was all the more dramatic.

But he was winning the game. The trick was all in how you kept the score. He couldn't hope to elude the cuts/burns/blows, so they didn't count. He did get them to take him away from the sharp things earlier than they intended to, score for his side. Getting him to open his mouth that time - stupid move, Jack, should have known better! - score for their side. Laughing while they interrogated him -- when the relentless aggravation of their pinchy thing had flashed to mind a memory of how he had driven Daniel nuts just by tapping the man's arm over and over during a briefing - big score for his side. Bonus - they hadn't brought the pinchy thing back since.

Hands released him, and the voices stopped. Time for the silent treatment. He tried to act casual, as if he wasn't concerned about what might be about to happen. But there were very few cool, bored moves a person could make with hands bound behind, mouth firmly shut against further snacks, and legs together to try to protect tender areas.

He heard footsteps. So it would be Interrogation. Oh, joy. The footsteps came closer, circled him. He tensed in preparation for some sort of attack.

The footsteps went away and there was silence again.

He was almost ready to try exploring the floor around him when the hands came back. Rough hands, striking him, driving him to his knees. Hands on his face, his mouth. Damn. Guess they planned on keeping him a while if starving wasn't going to be an option. He resisted as best he could, because there was no way he'd make any single thing easy for them. Inevitably, they pried his mouth open, squirted some sticky crap down his throat. Again and again. Did they think his stomach was that large? Or were they just enjoying this new form of torture?

Finally, thankfully, they stopped. The loud men with the hard hands hauled him to his feet and took him away. The voices changed to laughter as he suddenly fell into water. Deep water. He kicked his feet, trying to keep his face above the surface as the salty water burned his open wounds. Waves sloshed over him as large things crashed into the water around him. Silence again, except for his own gasping breath. Something touched his leg. And again, something brushed by. What now? Was his kicking attracting some sort of sea beasts they had thrown in after him? Was he to choose between drowning and becoming something's lunch? He kept kicking because the alternative was sure death while this was … he realized then that it was simply another scare tactic.

As if they sensed the change, the men in the water around him gave up the sliding underwater touches and pounced. They pushed, pulled, and pummeled him, with the end result that he was soon naked and half drowned. But still alive. As they intended, no doubt.

He was pulled out and taken somewhere, to be left bound, blindfolded, and now naked and wet. In the silence. Had that been simply dinner and a bath? Or were they preparing him for something?

Eventually, the footsteps came again. Circled him as before. He raised his chin and clenched his teeth; he wasn't

ready to quit yet. There were clicking sounds, ominous in the darkness. Something brushed his chest and he backed up, to be stopped by a shove from behind. He stood still as his chest was grazed again. "Smile," a voice said, and his blindfold was whipped off. There was a bright flash, then darkness, and the blindfold was replaced.

He had seen little in the brief moment, but he could guess now what was going on. They had taken his picture. With a newspaper held in front of him to prove the date. Ransom? He was surprised that they would be willing to simply sell him back without having extracted any information from him. Unless the price was the information itself. The brief hope faded; the general would pay cash without a qualm, but he wouldn't trade the information for all the officers on his base.

He sighed, only then realizing that he was alone again. He wondered if he'd get his uniform back; those little biting things would be a bitch without it. Taking a prisoner's clothes was standard intimidation technique, though, so he didn't hold out a lot of hope.

Blind Man's Bluff, Part 2: For Sale: One Slightly Used Air Force Colonel

"Sir!"

The general looked up when Carter burst into his meeting. "This had better be important" he warned. He'd given the survivors of SG-1 some latitude since the loss of Colonel O'Neill, but this was pushing it.

She shoved a Manila envelope into his hands. He opened it. Closed it again and excused himself from the meeting.

He took a closer look in his office. "Is this for real?"

"Found it on the Internet, sir. It looks real."

He looked back down at the picture of his second in command looking startled and with yesterday's newspaper under his chin.

It was a sale ad. One not-so-slightly-used American Air Force colonel, high security clearance, active duty. Available to the highest bidder. No guarantee of information content as the colonel himself was not voluntarily party to the sale.

The following pages contained full body pictures to assure would-be purchasers that the item was largely intact and had no fatal-looking injuries. Hammond surveyed the photos with a mix of dismay and relief. Clearly the man had endured a variety of abuses, but all in all nothing looked like permanent damage. In the full-body frontal picture he even managed to somehow appear defiant, despite the blindfold. In the rear picture, his fingers could be seen fiddling with the leather bindings on his wrists. That was his second, all right, beaten literally but never figuratively.

Text further assured the reader that the subject had been handled using conventional means. There were no drugs in his system to delay immediate use upon purchase.

Dr Fraser stormed into his office an hour later. "We need to get colonel O'Neill out of there!"

"There weren't supposed to be any faces in the pictures you were given to analyze."

"There weren't. I know the people I treat, general. Even without seeing his face, I know that is Colonel O'Neill."

"Calm yourself. Doctor." He waved her to a seat. "Were you able to objectively review the pictures or should I have someone else do it?"

Stung by the question of her professionalism, she straightened. "No need, sir. I have your results. The pictures are consistent with actual injuries. I do not believe they were computer enhanced."

"It appears that the colonel has sustained multiple injuries over a number of days. However the specific injuries appear to be intended to cause pain more than damage. Bruises, cuts, burns inflicted by various implements.

Skin irritation seems to indicate that existing wounds are being aggravated, perhaps by salt or physical abrasion. This is also consistent with some physical forms of interrogation." She danced around the word torture. "The blindfold and bonds show evidence of being in place for some time; it's possible they've been there since he was taken. If so, it's likely that they are using a specific method to … extract information."

"What do you mean?"

"They would withhold food and sleep, alternate varying lengths of aggravation and neglect. The injuries would be inflicted repeatedly to add mental irritation; sort of like water torture but with cuts and bruises. The constant, small pains are meant to wear a person down quickly without doing life-threatening damage. It's likely that they are rubbing salt in open wounds to prevent infection as well as to provide… incentive… to cooperate."

"Which means?"

She took a deep breath. "They intend to keep him alive for a long time, sir. Hopefully, to return him to us." He didn't mention the sale ad to her. "Or else they have something else in mind for him themselves."

"Are you sure about this?"

"Some odd marks on his skin are the only inconsistency. Sort of like insect bites or very small rodents attacking the open wounds."

Hammond swallowed back nausea on hearing his friend was literally being eaten alive by bugs or mice. "So how bad is it?"

"Judging by the photos, he's in a lot of pain. But as I said, the injuries are not physically life threatening. The human body can withstand a lot, sir. As for his mental state…"

The general smiled faintly. "He's still with us, doctor."

"I'd like to believe that, too. Sir. But prolonged treatment of this kind…"

He raised a hand to silence her. Pointed out his earlier observations. "He's still fighting, doctor."

"We have to get him back, sir!"

"We're working on it, Doctor."

Blind Man's Bluff, part 3/4: To the highest bidder

He was awakened by a kick in the ribs and ordered to his feet. Failing to respond quickly enough he was pulled upright by the hair. The usual rough hands drove him forward through the blindfold-imposed darkness

Damn. He had been enjoying the first sleep he'd had in he didn't know how long. After another dinner-and-bath combo, but without the souvenir photo, they had actually left him alone in an empty place for a couple of hours. He supposed he was about to find out why he'd been given the reprieve. It wasn't for good behavior, he thought with satisfaction, remembering the solid kick he'd been lucky enough to land on one of his interrogators.

The silence didn't last long this time either. Footsteps approached. A voice spoke. But it wasn't asking questions.

It wasn't even speaking to him.

"Gentlemen," it began. "You can see that the item is intact." Footsteps circled as he tried to figure out what was happening. "Strong enough for whatever use you have in mind. What am I bid?"

Jack stiffened in horror. The picture hadn't been for a ransom demand. He was being _sold._ Auctioned off like a steer. Only the cow could look forward to a single merciful hammer blow, while he -- stop it, he told himself firmly. That won't help. Pay attention. Learn what you can.

There seemed to be two bidders. One with a Russian accent, the other sounding Arabic.

Crap. Those choices were starting to make his current captors sound like college pranksters.

Wait. There was a third voice. German, perhaps? He started to hope a little bit that this was a friend sent by the US or one of its allies.

The bidding rose as the auctioneer reminded them that Jack was on active duty and would have current information. Valuable data, since he also had top level clearance.

At one point, The German suggested that the Russian might not have the resources to keep bidding.

The Russian calmly told them that he represented multiple backers who would use the item together and in turns. He laughed cruelly and said they even had someone ready to pay for the privilege of disposing of the colonel when he outlived his use.

The Arab complemented him on a very clever idea. Said _he_ would win the bid, but he was certain he, too, could find people willing to pay for a chance at an American military man.

"The U.S. might pay to have me back, too," Jack suggested, expecting a blow for speaking, but it was worth the remote chance.

"The US has already buried the body of their dear Colonel," the auctioneer said. "They are not looking for him, not expecting any security breach."

"Excellent," approved the Arab.

"All the more time to gain and use information," the Russian agreed.

Jack found himself silently rooting for the German.

The Arab won in the end.

Something long and heavy was draped over Jack. Even over his head and face. A burka, he realized. They were going to just walk him away disguised as an Arab woman.

Jack felt hope rising. Maybe he'd have a chance at escape when they were in public. It was taboo for a man to touch a woman in many Arabic countries, so once he started running, he might have a shot.

Or not.

He was made to sit in a chair. Pain shot all the way up his arms as his wrists were released from their long bondage behind his back. They were jerked to the front and firmly attached to the metal arms of the chair. So tightly he could not even raise his palms. His torso was strapped to the straight chair's back. The hood was raised briefly so that a gag could be placed in his mouth. A strap from his jaw leading down his back to the binding there not only kept the gag in place but limited the movement of his head. It was only when his feet were fastened to the platforms that he realized it was a wheelchair.

"Come, grandmother," the Arab mocked, rolling the chair away. "The family is eager to see you."

He suddenly felt much hotter, and a little light penetrated the thick veil. _Must be outside_, he thought. The heat quickly grew oppressive, the dark garment seeming to absorb and increase the effect.

_Why do they always make these things black?_ he thought inanely. _Well, Daniel always said black looks good on me. Sets off my hair or something. And it is slimming. I prefer a little color myself. Even camo beats monotone. Black, especially. Feel like I'm going to a funeral_.

_You are, O'Neill. Yours_.

His mind returned from its pleasantly meaningless distraction with a thud. _Ok, be that way_, he told himself irritably. _Be an officer, here. Run through the options. Totally immobilized, so physical action is out. Unless I pee on someone_. His mind took the opportunity for another pleasure cruise from reality, imagining what would happen if someone saw the wheelchair-bound grandmother pee upward. The never-say-die-even-when-realistically-its-your-best-hope side of his brain came right back with a tactical analysis of 'unlikely after having so little fluid input.' Ok, so the physical wasn't happening. Verbal? He could manage some grunts through the gag, but would anyone believe he was anything other than a sadly ill old woman? Not likely. Back to the basics, then. Intel. Hard to see anything through the thick veil. But he could listen. Pay attention for any chance of someone who might help

The man took great delight in tormenting his captive as they traveled in a small, ancient aircraft. They were the only passengers. Jack tried to attract the attention of the pilot, only to have his escort sadly tell the pilot not to mind Grandmother; age was getting the best of her. The pilot found it endearing how the grandson sat near the old woman, murmuring in her ear during the whole trip.

And he did talk the entire time. The Arab described en exquisite detail what the slim chain he wore as a belt would do when wielded as a whip. How he would drive his victims from pain to begging all the way till they were frantic for release. That was the time to start asking questions, he informed the colonel. When the source was hysterical with pain and fear. When he begged for a question to answer.

"Perhaps you think I cannot do this? That my backers want you as you are?" In fact, he had been thinking exactly that. "You fail to realize that they do not know what condition you were in when you were acquired."

The man smiled at him. "You know, you remind me of someone. An American officer who was our guest in Iraq for a while. Perhaps you would enjoy some of his favorite amenities?" He proceeded to describe some of the things he had read in the documents the sellers had gathered.

Jack tried to shut it out, not to listen to the man describing those four awful months he had spent as a POW. Sounds, he told himself firmly, just sounds. It can't hurt you. Has no meaning unless you give it meaning. Still, he found himself getting a little shaky as the memories flooded back.

The other man noticed. "Cold?" he asked with mock concern. "Don't worry." He laughed. "It's hot in the desert." A pause. "Perhaps not. Our brave American would not accept such luxuries from his owners. A nice cool room, then, for you to stay in."

They spent two long days in a squalid hotel room, the Arab checking periodically for something on his pocket-sized computer. In between, he entertained himself by making Jack miserable.

He ate leisurely meals in front of his captive, never offering him anything to eat or drink. He did thoughtfully flavor the gag with a generous amount of curry, though.

He tried to demonstrate the chain-belt-whip, but found it ineffective while Jack was in the chair. Deciding it would be too much hassle to release him from the chair and rebind him later, he moved on to other games.

And always he talked. Describing things that would be done to Jack when they reached their destination. Suggesting that his experiences in Iraq would be relived, or even intensified.

Finally, whatever he was waiting for appeared on the tiny computer screen. It must have been something good, because it made him smile, then laugh outright with anticipation.

"It seems you will not be enjoying the amenities we discussed, after all," he told Jack with mock sadness. "They have something much more intense for you!" He smiled that evil smile again. "If you're good, maybe I'll give you a hint on the way."

Blind Man's Bluff, part 4/4: New Owners

They were soon in another rickety old plane, with another pilot commending the Arab on his care for his mother.

"Almost home," the man laughed with cruel delight as the plane circled to land. "Time to stop talking and start doing!"

He leaned in close, his voice throaty with excitement. "You would not believe me if I told you what awaits! They say there are things so awful that the mind refuses to believe. I am told that even the strongest mind will crack, brave men will see their mother, their friends, anything but what is before them. I am eager to see this phenomenon for myself."

"You will tell me if this is so, yes? Call out to your mother, your wife, your friends if you see them."

The plane landed, and the Arab rolled him off the plane.

It didn't take long, forever and no time at all, to Jack's racing mind and frozen heart.

The chair stopped again. A door closed. A few hushed words that he didn't catch, and the veil was raised momentarily.

God! It was true!

He saw, thought he saw, Daniel in front of him. Only this Daniel's eyes were brown instead of blue. Then the veil dropped and it was dark again. The Arab bent and whispered in his ear. "So, is it true? Did you see it? Did you see what he held? Or did you see your mother come to your rescue?" Jack didn't answer, not that he could have in any case.

A door closed.

"Finally!" a voice said.

The veil was lifted, and this time he saw a brown-eyed brunette Carter. What the hell could they be holding that would make him lose his mind like this?

Colonel?" He didn't respond, trying frantically to figure out what was really happening. He'd been through a dozen kinds of hell in his lifetime, but this would rank with the worst of them if his torturers were warped versions of his closest friends.

Or worse.

A normal-looking Frasier appeared in front of him.

Was his mind playing more tricks? Making the next person look right as soon as he thought about the others being wrong?

"I don't think he's with us yet. Let's get to work," she said to the others in the room. A knife appeared in her hand; it moved toward his face and he tensed. She cut the gag and pulled it from his mouth. He felt the bonds on his arms and chest fall away.

Maybe this really was Frasier, maybe he really was safe...

"This is going to hurt," she warned him.

Maybe not so safe after all.

He tried to resist as he was lifted from the chair and laid out before the Frasier-person without so much as the burka to protect him. He was too weak from dehydration and immobility on top of the other abuses. His arms screamed in protest as they were firmly moved. Numerous injuries all over his back and legs joined in objecting to holding the weight of his body.

He lay there helplessly as she looked over his body. He tried to focus on her hands, to make himself see what was really there.

The doctor scrutinized her patient. Pretty much the same injuries she had seen in the photo. There were some fresh marks, courtesy of the bastard they'd had to hire to buy the colonel back. 'I am a delivery agent, not a nursemaid' the pig had said to explain O'Neill's state.

She noticed his eyes, which seemed to be having difficulty focusing. The man was squinting and blinking at her.

"Let's start with the eyes," she said, moving towards him, something in her hand.

He panicked. What were they going to do to his eyes! Suddenly seeing his friends hurting him didn't sound quite so bad compared to never seeing again. It was enough incentive to force his arms to move, to lock his hands around the Fraser-monster's throat.

Shouts erupted in the quiet room and hands attacked him. They were too many, too strong. The brown-eyed versions of Daniel and Carter each forced one of his arms over his head. The Frasier-monster rolled down across his legs, pinning them to the bed. He soon found himself bound again, spread eagle and at the mercy of his new captors.

The Fraser-monster knelt nearby, still alive, even if in pain. His luck was holding-- he'd just pissed off the people who were already getting ready to hurt him.

'Fraser' caught her breath. "Ok, so he's at least partly with us. Let's get these on him then we'll all take a break."

He couldn't see what "these" referred to but he was pretty sure he didn't want them. He tensed to defend himself as best he could, pleased to see the trepidation with which the dark eyed trio approached.

After a heart-stopping pause, they pounced. They freed his ankles and he got several good adrenaline-powered blows in with his feet before they re-shackled him. There was something by his ankles, he couldn't tell what. They pushed it upwards and he bucked, trying to avoid whatever it was.

Suddenly, they were gone. He lay still, panting from exertion. Around him, his captors knelt or sat, all breathing as hard as he was. In a few moments, they moved away out of his sight.

He lifted his head as far as he could, trying to get a better look at whatever "these" were that they had taken such trouble to apply. To have some idea of what sort of torment they had in mind. The simple movement was an effort, in his current condition, but he persevered. He had to know. His new 'owners' weren't messing around, they were going for high impact. First it was strangers looking like his friends. Then the aborted attack on his eyes. And now something awaited at his groin.

Steeling himself for the vilest torture tools he knew of, he peered down his body and saw…

it can't be.

no way.

not possible.

He closed his eyes and opened them again.

this is not happening

He looked yet again, opened and closed his eyes again, and still all he could see was...

gray fleece shorts.

His eyes must still be playing tricks on him, as the Arab had said they would. He'd seen - and experienced -- a lot of horrible things in his life. What could they possibly have come up with that his mind couldn't deal with?

"Can't you give him something to wake him up or calm him down, or something?" one gasped.

The trio sat around the outer room, catching their breath much as the man bound in the back room was catching his. A fourth person stood, guarding the door as he had since the colonel had been delivered. They couldn't afford to be discovered here, like this. They had taken great pains to cover their tracks, their intent, even their nationality. They would need to move again very soon, to throw the delivery agent off the trail and ensure that no one in the world knew exactly where they were.

'Fraser' shook her head. "Not without knowing what drugs he's got in there already."

"They said they didn't use any."

"They must have lied," 'Fraser' insisted.

"He keeps squinting, like he can't focus. Maybe they've done something to his eyes?"

"We can't stay here long," the third pointed out. "We have to move him somehow."

"There's always the wheelchair…."

"We might have to incapacitate him…"

The man guarding the door had heard enough. Without a word, he left his position and went into the other room.

Jack saw a huge figure tower over him. Here we go, he thought, gritting his teeth.

The figure got smaller, the person kneeling beside him. "O'Neill, it is I, Teal'c. You are safe now."

Jack just stared, wanting to believe, but not sure. Each of the others had started out seemingly real, too. Were they all real? Or all tricks being played by his captors?

He felt his right hand being released from its binding, only to be held by vise-like fingers. His arm was moved slowly downward. Jack held his breath, waiting to find out what was going to happen to his hand. He closed his eyes; if something bad was about to happen, he didn't want to associate it with Teal'c's face.

"O'Neill, it is I," the figure repeated. Jack's hand was slid under the man's shirt. His fingers grazed the edges of something on the warm, dry belly. Suddenly, there was movement under his hand, something leathery and covered in slime.

He jerked his hand back, found it free to move. "For crying out loud, Teal'c!"

His friend smiled at him. "Welcome back, O'Neill."


End file.
